well as from others. As we grow up we simply adopt the ideas presented
to us in regard to such matters as religion, family relations,
property, business, our country, and the state. We unconsciously
absorb them from our environment. They are persistently whispered in
our ear by the group in which we happen to live. Moreover, as Mr.
Trotter has pointed out, these judgments, being the product of
suggestion and not of reasoning, have the quality of perfect
obviousness, so that to question them
... is to the believer to carry skepticism to an insane degree, and
will be met by contempt, disapproval, or condemnation, according to
the nature of the belief in question. When, therefore, we find
ourselves entertaining an opinion about the basis of which there is
a quality of feeling which tells us that to inquire into it would be
absurd, obviously unnecessary, unprofitable, undesirable, bad form,
or wicked, we may know that that opinion is a nonrational one, and
probably, therefore, founded upon inadequate evidence.[3]
Opinions, on the other hand, which are the result of experience or of
honest reasoning do not have this quality of "primary certitude". I
remember when as a youth I heard a group of business men discussing
the question of the immortality of the soul, I was outraged by the
sentiment of doubt expressed by one of the party. As I look back now I
see that I had at the time no interest in the matter, and certainly no
least argument to urge in favor of the belief in which I had been
reared. But neither my personal indifference to the issue, nor the
fact that I had previously given it no attention, served to prevent an
angry resentment when I heard _my_ ideas questioned.
This spontaneous and loyal support of our preconceptions--this process
of finding "good" reasons to justify our routine beliefs--is known to
modern psychologists as "rationalizing"--clearly only a new name for a
very ancient thing. Our "good" reasons ordinarily have no value in
promoting honest enlightenment, because, no matter how solemnly they
may be marshaled, they are at bottom the result of personal preference
or prejudice, and not of an honest desire to seek or accept new
knowledge.
In our reveries we are frequently engaged in self-justification, for
we cannot bear to think ourselves wrong, and yet have constant
illustrations of our weaknesses and mistakes. So we spend much time
finding fault with circumstances and the conduct of others, and
shifting on to them with great ingenuity the on us of our own failures
and disappointments. _Rationalizing is the self-exculpation which
occurs when we feel ourselves, or our group, accused of
misapprehension or error._
The little word _my_ is the most important one in all human affairs,
and properly to reckon with it is the beginning of wisdom. It has the
same force whether it is _my_ dinner, _my_ dog, and _my_ house,
or _my_ faith, _my_ country, and _my God_. We not only resent the
imputation that our watch is wrong, or our car shabby, but that our
conception of the canals of Mars, of the pronunciation of "Epictetus",
of the medicinal value of salicine, or the date of Sargon I, are
subject to revision.
Philosophers, scholars, and men of science exhibit a common
sensitiveness in all decisions in which their _amour propre_ is
involved. Thousands of argumentative works have been written to vent a
grudge. However stately their reasoning, it may be nothing but
rationalizing, stimulated by the most commonplace of all motives.
A history of philosophy and theology could be written in terms of
grouches, wounded pride, and aversions, and it would be far more
instructive than the usual treatments of these themes. Sometimes,
under Providence, the lowly impulse of resentment leads to great
achievements. Milton wrote his treatise on divorce as a result of his
troubles with his seventeen-year-old wife, and when he was accused of
being the leading spirit in a new sect, the Divorcers, he wrote his
noble _Areopagitica_ to prove his right to say what he thought fit,
and incidentally to establish the advantage of a free press in the
promotion of Truth.
All mankind, high and low, thinks in all the ways which have been
described. The reverie goes on all the time not only in the mind of
the mill hand and the Broadway flapper, but equally in weighty judges
and godly bishops. It has gone on in all the philosophers, scientists,
poets, and theologians that have ever lived. Aristotle's most abstruse
speculations were doubtless tempered by highly irrelevant reflections.
He is reported to have had very thin legs and small eyes, for which he
doubtless had to find excuses, and he was wont to indulge in very
conspicuous dress and rings and was accustomed to arrange his hair
carefully.[4] Diogenes the Cynic exhibited the impudence of a touchy
soul. His tub was his distinction. Tennyson in beginning his "Maud"
could not forget his chagrin over losing his patrimony years before as
the result of an unhappy investment in the Patent Decorative Carving
Company. These facts are not recalled here as a gratuitous
disparagement of the truly great, but to insure a full realization of
the tremendous competition which all really exacting thought has to
face, even in the minds of the most highly endowed mortals.
And now the astonishing and perturbing suspicion emerges that perhaps
almost all that had passed for social science, political economy,
politics, and ethics in the past may be brushed aside by future
generations as mainly rationalizing. John Dewey has already reached
this conclusion in regard to philosophy.[5] Veblen[6] and other
writers have revealed the various unperceived presuppositions of the
traditional political economy, and now comes an Italian sociologist,
Vilfredo Pareto, who, in his huge treatise on general sociology,
devotes hundreds of pages to substantiating a similar thesis affecting
all the social sciences.[7] This conclusion may be ranked by students
of a hundred years hence as one of the several great discoveries of
our age. It is by no means fully worked out, and it is so opposed to
nature that it will be very slowly accepted by the great mass of those
who consider themselves thoughtful. As a historical student I am
personally fully reconciled to this newer view. Indeed, it seems to me
inevitable that just as the various sciences of nature were, before
the opening of the seventeenth century, largely masses of
rationalizations to suit the religious sentiments of the period, so
the social sciences have continued even to our own day to be
rationalizations of uncritically accepted beliefs and customs.
_It will become apparent as we proceed that the fact that an idea is
ancient and that it has been widely received is no argument in its
favor, but should immediately suggest the necessity of carefully
testing it as a probable instance of rationalization_.
5. HOW CREATIVE THOUGHT TRANSFORMS THE WORLD
This brings us to another kind of thought which can fairly easily be
distinguished from the three kinds described above. It has not the
usual qualities of the reverie, for it does not hover about our
personal complacencies and humiliations. It is not made up of the
homely decisions forced upon us by everyday needs, when we review our
little stock of existing information, consult our conventional
preferences and obligations, and make a choice of action. It is not
the defense of our own cherished beliefs and prejudices just because
they are our own--mere plausible excuses for remaining of the same
mind. On the contrary, it is that peculiar species of thought which
leads us to _change_ our mind.
It is this kind of thought that has raised man from his pristine,
subsavage ignorance and squalor to the degree of knowledge and comfort
which he now possesses. On his capacity to continue and greatly extend
this kind of thinking depends his chance of groping his way out of the
plight in which the most highly civilized peoples of the world now
find themselves. In the past this type of thinking has been called
Reason. But so many misapprehensions have grown up around the word
that some of us have become very suspicious of it. I suggest,
therefore, that we substitute a recent name and speak of "creative
thought" rather than of Reason. _For this kind of meditation begets
knowledge, and knowledge is really creative inasmuch as it makes
things look different from what they seemed before and may indeed work
for their reconstruction_.
In certain moods some of us realize that we are observing things or
making reflections with a seeming disregard of our personal
preoccupations. We are not preening or defending ourselves; we are not
faced by the necessity of any practical decision, nor are we
apologizing for believing this or that. We are just wondering and
looking and mayhap seeing what we never perceived before.
Curiosity is as clear and definite as any of our urges. We wonder what
is in a sealed telegram or in a letter in which some one else is
absorbed, or what is being said in the telephone booth or in low
conversation. This inquisitiveness is vastly stimulated by jealousy,
suspicion, or any hint that we ourselves are directly or indirectly
involved. But there appears to be a fair amount of personal interest
in other people's affairs even when they do not concern us except as a
mystery to be unraveled or a tale to be told. The reports of a divorce
suit will have "news value" for many weeks. They constitute a story,
like a novel or play or moving picture. This is not an example of pure
curiosity, however, since we readily identify ourselves with others,
and their joys and despair then become our own.
We also take note of, or "observe", as Sherlock Holmes says, things
which have nothing to do with our personal interests and make no
personal appeal either direct or by way of sympathy. This is what
Veblen so well calls "idle curiosity". And it is usually idle enough.
Some of us when we face the line of people opposite us in a subway
train impulsively consider them in detail and engage in rapid
inferences and form theories in regard to them. On entering a room
there are those who will perceive at a glance the degree of
preciousness of the rugs, the character of the pictures, and the
personality revealed by the books. But there are many, it would seem,
who are so absorbed in their personal reverie or in some definite
purpose that they have no bright-eyed energy for idle curiosity. The
tendency to miscellaneous observation we come by honestly enough, for
we note it in many of our animal relatives.
Veblen, however, uses the term "idle curiosity" somewhat ironically,
as is his wont. It is idle only to those who fail to realize that it
may be a very rare and indispensable thing from which almost all
distinguished human achievement proceeds. Since it may lead to
systematic examination and seeking for things hitherto undiscovered.
For research is but diligent search which enjoys the high flavor of
primitive hunting. Occasionally and fitfully idle curiosity thus leads
to creative thought, which alters and broadens our own views and
aspirations and may in turn, under highly favorable circumstances,
affect the views and lives of others, even for generations to follow.
An example or two will make this unique human process clear.
Galileo was a thoughtful youth and doubtless carried on a rich and
varied reverie. He had artistic ability and might have turned out to
be a musician or painter. When he had dwelt among the monks at
Valambrosa he had been tempted to lead the life of a religious. As a
boy he busied himself with toy machines and he inherited a fondness
for mathematics. All these facts are of record. We may safely assume
also that, along with many other subjects of contemplation, the Pisan
maidens found a vivid place in his thoughts.
One day when seventeen years old he wandered into the cathedral of his
native town. In the midst of his reverie he looked up at the lamps
hanging by long chains from the high ceiling of the church. Then
something very difficult to explain occurred. He found himself no
longer thinking of the building, worshipers, or the services; of his
artistic or religious interests; of his reluctance to become a
physician as his father wished. He forgot the question of a career and
even the _graziosissime donne_. As he watched the swinging lamps he
was suddenly wondering if mayhap their oscillations, whether long or
short, did not occupy the same time. Then he tested this hypothesis by
counting his pulse, for that was the only timepiece he had with him.
This observation, however remarkable in itself, was not enough to
produce a really creative thought. Others may have noticed the same
thing and yet nothing came of it. Most of our observations have no
assignable results. Galileo may have seen that the warts on a
peasant's face formed a perfect isosceles triangle, or he may have
noticed with boyish glee that just as the officiating priest was
uttering the solemn words, _ecce agnus Dei_, a fly lit on the end of
his nose. To be really creative, ideas have to be worked up and then
"put over", so that they become a part of man's social heritage. The
highly accurate pendulum clock was one of the later results of
Galileo's discovery. He himself was led to reconsider and successfully
to refute the old notions of falling bodies. It remained for Newton to
prove that the moon was falling, and presumably all the heavenly
bodies. This quite upset all the consecrated views of the heavens as
managed by angelic engineers. The universality of the laws of
gravitation stimulated the attempt to seek other and equally important
natural laws and cast grave doubts on the miracles in which mankind
had hitherto believed. In short, those who dared to include in their
thought the discoveries of Galileo and his successors found themselves
in a new earth surrounded by new heavens.
On the 28th of October, 1831, three hundred and fifty years after
Galileo had noticed the isochronous vibrations of the lamps, creative
thought and its currency had so far increased that Faraday was
wondering what would happen if he mounted a disk of copper between the
poles of a horseshoe magnet. As the disk revolved an electric current
was produced. This would doubtless have seemed the idlest kind of an
experiment to the stanch business men of the time, who, it happened,
were just then denouncing the child-labor bills in their anxiety to
avail themselves to the full of the results of earlier idle curiosity.
But should the dynamos and motors which have come into being as the
outcome of Faraday's experiment be stopped this evening, the business
man of to-day, agitated over labor troubles, might, as he trudged home
past lines of "dead" cars, through dark streets to an unlighted house,
engage in a little creative thought of his own and perceive that he
and his laborers would have no modern factories and mines to quarrel
about had it not been for the strange practical effects of the idle
curiosity of scientists, inventors, and engineers.
The examples of creative intelligence given above belong to the realm
of modern scientific achievement, which furnishes the most striking
instances of the effects of scrupulous, objective thinking. But there
are, of course, other great realms in which the recording and
embodiment of acute observation and insight have wrought themselves
into the higher life of man. The great poets and dramatists and our
modern story-tellers have found themselves engaged in productive
reveries, noting and artistically presenting their discoveries for the
delight and instruction of those who have the ability to appreciate
them.
The process by which a fresh and original poem or drama comes into
being is doubtless analogous to that which originates and elaborates
so-called scientific discoveries; but there is clearly a temperamental
difference. The genesis and advance of painting, sculpture, and music
offer still other problems. We really as yet know shockingly little
about these matters, and indeed very few people have the least
curiosity about them.[8] Nevertheless, creative intelligence in its
various forms and activities is what makes man. Were it not for its
slow, painful, and constantly discouraged operations through the ages
man would be no more than a species of primate living on seeds, fruit,
roots, and uncooked flesh, and wandering naked through the woods and
over the plains like a chimpanzee.
The origin and progress and future promotion of civilization are ill
understood and misconceived. These should be made the chief theme of
education, but much hard work is necessary before we can reconstruct
our ideas of man and his capacities and free ourselves from
innumerable persistent misapprehensions. There have been
obstructionists in all times, not merely the lethargic masses, but
the moralists, the rationalizing theologians, and most of the
philosophers, all busily if unconsciously engaged in ratifying
existing ignorance and mistakes and discouraging creative thought.
Naturally, those who reassure us seem worthy of honor and respect.
Equally naturally those who puzzle us with disturbing criticisms and
invite us to change our ways are objects of suspicion and readily
discredited. Our personal discontent does not ordinarily extend to any
critical questioning of the general situation in which we find
ourselves. In every age the prevailing conditions of civilization have
appeared quite natural and inevitable to those who grew up in them.
The cow asks no questions as to how it happens to have a dry stall and
a supply of hay. The kitten laps its warm milk from a china saucer,
without knowing anything about porcelain; the dog nestles in the
corner of a divan with no sense of obligation to the inventors of
upholstery and the manufacturers of down pillows. So we humans accept
our breakfasts, our trains and telephones and orchestras and movies,
our national Constitution, or moral code and standards of manners,
with the simplicity and innocence of a pet rabbit. We have absolutely
inexhaustible capacities for appropriating what others do for us with
no thought of a "thank you". We do not feel called upon to make any
least contribution to the merry game ourselves. Indeed, we are usually
quite unaware that a game is being played at all.
We have now examined the various classes of thinking which we can
readily observe in ourselves and which we have plenty of reasons to
believe go on, and always have been going on, in our fellow-men. We
can sometimes get quite pure and sparkling examples of all four kinds,
but commonly they are so confused and intermingled in our reverie as
not to be readily distinguishable. The reverie is a reflection of our
longings, exultations, and complacencies, our fears, suspicions, and
disappointments. We are chiefly engaged in struggling to maintain our
self-respect and in asserting that supremacy which we all crave and
which seems to us our natural prerogative. It is not strange, but
rather quite inevitable, that our beliefs about what is true and
false, good and bad, right and wrong, should be mixed up with the
reverie and be influenced by the same considerations which determine
its character and course. We resent criticisms of our views exactly as
we do of anything else connected with ourselves. Our notions of life
and its ideals seem to us to be _our own_ and as such necessarily true
and right, to be defended at all costs.
_We very rarely consider, however, the process by which we gained our
convictions_. If we did so, we could hardly fail to see that there was
usually little ground for our confidence in them. Here and there, in
this department of knowledge or that, some one of us might make a fair
claim to have taken some trouble to get correct ideas of, let us say,
the situation in Russia, the sources of our food supply, the origin of
the Constitution, the revision of the tariff, the policy of the Holy
Roman Apostolic Church, modern business organization, trade unions,
birth control, socialism, the League of Nations, the excess-profits
tax, preparedness, advertising in its social bearings; but only a very
exceptional person would be entitled to opinions on all of even these
few matters. And yet most of us have opinions on all these, and on
many other questions of equal importance, of which we may know even
less. We feel compelled, as self-respecting persons, to take sides
when they come up for discussion. We even surprise ourselves by our
omniscience. Without taking thought we see in a flash that it is most
righteous and expedient to discourage birth control by legislative
enactment, or that one who decries intervention in Mexico is clearly
wrong, or that big advertising is essential to big business and that
big business is the pride of the land. As godlike beings why should we
not rejoice in our omniscience?
It is clear, in any case, that our convictions on important matters
are not the result of knowledge or critical thought, nor, it may be
added, are they often dictated by supposed self-interest. Most of them
are _pure prejudices_ in the proper sense of that word. We do not form
them ourselves. They are the whisperings of "the voice of the herd".
We have in the last analysis no responsibility for them and need
assume none. They are not really our own ideas, but those of others no
more well informed or inspired than ourselves, who have got them in
the same careless and humiliating manner as we. It should be our pride
to revise our ideas and not to adhere to what passes for respectable
opinion, for such opinion can frequently be shown to be not respectable
at all. We should, in view of the considerations that have been
mentioned, resent our supine credulity. As an English writer has
remarked:
"If we feared the entertaining of an unverifiable opinion with the
warmth with which we fear using the wrong implement at the dinner
table, if the thought of holding a prejudice disgusted us as does a
foul disease, then the dangers of man's suggestibility would be turned
into advantages."[9]
The purpose of this essay is to set forth briefly the way in which the
notions of the herd have been accumulated. This seems to me the best,
easiest, and least invidious educational device for cultivating a
proper distrust for the older notions on which we still continue to
rely.
The "real" reasons, which explain how it is we happen to hold a
particular belief, are chiefly historical. Our most important
opinions--those, for example, having to do with traditional,
religious, and moral convictions, property rights, patriotism,
national honor, the state, and indeed all the assumed foundations of
society--are, as I have already suggested, rarely the result of
reasoned consideration, but of unthinking absorption from the social
environment in which we live. Consequently, they have about them a
quality of "elemental certitude", and we especially resent doubt or
criticism cast upon them. So long, however, as we revere the
whisperings of the herd, we are obviously unable to examine them
dispassionately and to consider to what extent they are suited to the
novel conditions and social exigencies in which we find ourselves
to-day.
The "real" reasons for our beliefs, by making clear their origins and
history, can do much to dissipate this emotional blockade and rid us
of our prejudices and preconceptions. Once this is done and we come
critically to examine our traditional beliefs, we may well find some
of them sustained by experience and honest reasoning, while others
must be revised to meet new conditions and our more extended
knowledge. But only after we have undertaken such a critical
examination in the light of experience and modern knowledge, freed
from any feeling of "primary certitude", can we claim that the "good"
are also the "real" reasons for our opinions.